


A Night In The Torture Chamber

by cuddlepuss



Category: Frank Iero - Fandom, Gerard Way - Fandom, MCR - Fandom, Mikey Way - Fandom, My Chemical Romance, bob bryar - Fandom, ray toro - Fandom
Genre: Blood Eagle, Crucifixion, Electrocution, Iron Maiden - Freeform, Multi, RACK - Freeform, Tar & Feather, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-17
Updated: 2014-05-17
Packaged: 2018-01-25 11:32:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1647113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuddlepuss/pseuds/cuddlepuss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When MCR goes to record over night in a haunted torture chamber museum, will any of them live until next morning?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Night In The Torture Chamber

**Author's Note:**

> This was a contest entry, had to be MCR, and horror. Far from my favourite form of written work, but none the less, it was well accepted on DeviantArt where I originally posted it.

This was a trip with a difference. We were filming in the torture chamber  
of the local museum, one of our latest tracks was a bit gory, and the record   
company had secured permission to used this place over a couple nights.

Talk about grim. The torture impliments had manekins in place of the victims,  
and someone had had the unenviable job of modeling them on us, so it looked like   
the guys and I were being tortured. Fucking good job they'd done too, they would   
have easily fooled us if we hadn't been all five of us together.

Poor Mikey didn't like being there. Said it was creeping him out, and if we left  
him alone, he'd be off and running. Mind you, I knew what he was talking about,   
these damned exhibits were entirely too realistic for my liking.

Frank, being the halloween nut he is couldn't wait to explore, and was off and   
wandering about on his own almost as soon as the staff locked us in. Looking for him,  
we'd just left the entrance, when there was a blood curdling scream. Thinking it was   
Frank messing about, we followed the sound at a leasuirely pace, to stop dead in our  
tracks, mouths hanging open with horror.

There, on the wrack, was short ass Frank. But, the wrack was stretching, pulling   
tight of it's own accord, as we got into the room propper, you could see the muscles  
standing out in clear definition on his abdomen and arms, could hear the popping and   
snapping of tendons and ligaments as the rack pulled ever tighter, dragging his five   
foot nothing frame to exagerated proportions, his ankles and wrists getting cut by the   
manacles holding him onto the antique frame.

Racing forward, Bob and I started to try to wrench the screws the other way, while  
Gerard and Mikey yanked at the shackles. The harder we tried to free poor Frank, the   
faster the screws tightened, until we heard the wet ripping sound of muscles and   
ligaments tearing inside skin, as Frank screamed hoarsely in agony, and passed out. Still  
the screws turned, and the sounds of tearing muscle came again from his thighs, bones  
starting to crack and break under the stress on them.

Frantically, we wrenched at the fucking machine, to no avail, with one final, rasping   
gasp, Frank's head fell sidesways, and his chest was still. He was dead. We'd been in  
the place all of half an hour, and Frank was dead. As we stood staring at him in horrified disbelief,  
maniacle laughter filled the air, and a chill breeze blew through the room.

____________________________________________________________________________________________

Leaving the room, we were all very quiet, no-one wanted to speak, we were all in shock.  
It just wasn't possible that Frank was dead on one of the unmanned torture devices from centuries   
past, it just wasn't. But .... he was. He ..... was.

Going into another room, none of us noticed, at first, that Gerard wasn't with us anymore,  
until Mikey spoke to him and he didn't answer, thats when we heard the second scream.  
Racing back out the way we came, we saw no signs of him, til Mikey, going pale and stammering,  
tears in his eyes, pointed to a river of red, a river that hadn't been there before...

Following the trail back to it's source, we found it lead to an iron maiden, an iron   
maiden that had been open when we arrived, but was now locked tight, with an enormous padlock   
on it. The river of blood was coming from the bottom, and sticking out the side was the end   
of Gerard's feather boa...

_____________________________________________________________________________________________

Getting seriously freaked out now, we stayed tight together, or so we thought, until we saw  
Mikey drifting away, seemingly floating on a pale blue mist, as we watched, that same maniacal  
laughter drifted over to us as Mikey, screaming, drifted out of sight.

Following the direction we'd seen Mikey going in last, we heard screaming and ... hammering?  
Why hammering? Following the sounds, we found the reason for the hammering. My heart in my throat,  
I exchanged glances with Bob, in under an hour we gone from a five man band, to one with one stretched to  
literal death on the rack, one crushed inside an iron maiden, and now one was being. *gulp*   
CRUCIFIED, right there, live / dead, in front of us, with nothing we could do about it, no way to   
get to him, and that fucking maniacal laugh was the again, with the cold wind.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Turning to Bob, only to find him no longer there, I followed the now familiar screams to another  
room in this ... hell on earth. There was Bob, Strapped to an electric chair and shaved on the arms   
and legs, I could see, from the way his body was juddering and jolting that current was already  
passing through his body. Sparks of electricity arcing and jumping from him to the metal contacts  
of the chair, his eyes started to boil in their sockets as he slowly cooked to death, mouth gaping  
as his blood vessels burst and leaked with the raised pressure. With a last, tortured gasp, he was  
gone, and I was alone. 

________________________________________________________________________________________________

The first thing I knew was that I could smell tar, like when I'm passing a road repair crew on  
the interstate. I think I guessed then what was in store for me, and the knowledge held no comfort.

A sword came at me, and for some reason, I couldn't get out of the way, couldn't move, not even as  
it began to cut into my back. I knew what was going to happen now. The blood eagle. An olde worlde,  
excessively cruel method of marking the defeated of battle.

While the victim is still alive, the spine is cut open, and the internal organs splayed out on the   
back, forming the outline of an eagle, the blood eagle. Screaming, I felt the cut begin. Distracting   
my mind from what I was going through, I pondered what the tar was for, then it hit me, another   
treatment for the defeated was to 'tar and feather' them. As I pondered this, the caulderon of tar   
drifted closer ... and I knew no more.

 

THE END.


End file.
